


The Impersistence of Memory

by razboinicul_iernii



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Character Death, Gen, Memory Loss, POV Bucky Barnes, Post-Captain America: The First Avenger, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Self-Destruction, Surreal, Winter Soldier vs Bucky Barnes, i really don't know how to describe this, of a sort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2016-07-27
Packaged: 2018-07-27 03:17:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7601311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/razboinicul_iernii/pseuds/razboinicul_iernii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He woke up to...</p><p>Was that...<i>bacon</i>?</p><p>His eyes felt heavier than ever and he was cold but not as cold as he could be. And he groaned a little when he sat up because who the hell had come in here and made bacon? Probably not an enemy because they would've just popped one in his skull while he slept and been done with it. Least that's what he would've done. Hell if war doesn't change how you think. He rubbed his eyes and stood up to make his way to the kitchen and there was...</p><p>"Morning."</p><p>"What?" He nearly shrieked the word like a gal who just saw a mouse. But really, what? How was Steve there, and how had he brought bacon to cook? His eyes darted back out the window to confirm that yes, this was still that place in the middle of the woods and not Brooklyn, so yeah, it was all still perfectly god damn weird.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Impersistence of Memory

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of the first things I ever wrote when I realized I was becoming obsessed by this fandom...I'm very unsure about it but thought maybe someone could enjoy it. It seemed to me a little surreal in a way so I named it after the famous Dali painting 'Persistence of Memory'.

It was always cold because why not? When is winter not the most dramatic of the four fucking seasons and why shouldn't his life be anything but fucking dramatic? It's not enough his arm's aching like somebody ran over it with a tank or something, no, why not have it snow every damn day too? Least it hadn't piled up yet, there wasn't a ton to trudge through but how long would that last with the way it's been coming down? He had to find civilization. Something, anything, even a small little alpine village or whatever. Was anyone even looking for him?

The hell kind of question was that? Of course they were. Steve wouldn't give up on him like that, so of course someone was looking, or would be soon. He had some food and he knew he could portion it out to make it last him about a week even if the end of that week was gonna be the hungriest day of his life but whatever. Maybe he could find something in the woods, or make it somewhere worthwhile.

He thought he heard a train every now and then. But that couldn't be right because every time he looked, he couldn't see the tell tale sign of smoke or exhaust or whatever the fuck came puffing out of a train. And he never seemed to be able to find any railroad tracks. Just trees and trees and more trees and hey had he mentioned the trees? The terrain was mostly flat at least so there was that. A stream to follow and it flowed clear and strong. His feet weren't soaked yet. Didn't know what he'd do if they got wet in this kind of cold so he tried to be careful about that.

He guessed the thing that got to him most even if he didn't want to spend a lot of time thinking about it was the lack of memory. Couldn't remember how he got here. Knew it was in Europe. Just, where? They'd just been in London, right? And that broad wouldn't even so much as glance at him. Not that he was jealous or whatever. After all, how many gals had Steve had to watch get googly eyed over him? Just, it was not the usual for him to be the one that may as well not have even been there. But then not much had been the usual lately. Not since...

Since Steve, right, obviously Steve and his robust transformation. The caterpillar had weaved its asthmatic little cocoon and out came the golden god of a butterfly, fucking Stevie taller than him, who'd have thought? Taller, bigger, faster, stronger, whole nine yards. Again, no jealousy, Steve was his best friend, and if anyone deserved to be the perfect example of everything a man should be, it was Steve. So he was happy for him. And relieved he didn't have to pull him out of any more back alley brawls or whatever. If anything, Steve was gonna be the one saving his ass from now on because it wasn't like he knew how to keep his mouth shut either. Not to mention this whole lost-in-the-woods fiasco. Steve was gonna give him an earful. _Hypothermia! Starvation! Exposure! I know Stevie, I know._

Mostly it was weird that there wasn't a lot of life out here. He'd been walking for awhile now, no sign of a road or even the remains of a home. Sure he'd see a bird every now and then but not exactly like one was gonna fly down and keep him company. So it was just him and the wind. The god damn wind, fuck the wind. Made his face numb and his eyes sting and water and couldn't decide if it should be blowing his hair in his eyes or away from them. And if it was snowing at the same time the wind blew? Well fuck that. He'd have to start walking backwards. May as well be the same seeing as how he couldn't keep his eyes open with the little snowflakes slamming into them like razors or something.

But he kept trudge trudge trudging on because what else did he have to do? Least moving kept his blood flowing even if his arm felt number all the time and he'd swing it around and rotate it in the socket just to make sure it was still working. He tried not to let it worry him too much mostly because it wouldn't help a damn thing. What good could it do, getting wound up about things that hadn't even happen yet? Steve was better at not worrying than him. He used to say it's because worrying took more forethought than Steve was capable of, what with his propensity for throwing himself into things he would've known he couldn't handle if he took a minute to think about it. So Steve always said, "There's no middle ground between us." And he'd say yeah well in your art books it always said the opposite colors make each other pop the most. They were both okay with that.

Keeping track of time was really difficult. But he must've been moving somewhere because the terrain was getting a little rougher. Just a little. More rocks to slip on. Hills. He was having to move through snowdrifts now that enough had collected on the ground. His pant legs were tucked securely into the tops of his boots and hopefully no snow would slip in there but there was no way for him to be sure about it. There were still no roads in sight and if he tried to move in a different direction other than forward, it'd be way too easy to start back tracking and get lost. Or worse.

Something was following him. He didn't know how or why or even what it was. But it was there, definitely. Some shadow he'd catch far off in the woods behind him and he'd whip around and use his scope to search for any kind of movement. It was never there but it was _there_. Had to be. He didn't just make shit up. Maybe it was because of what they did to him. Was it? Could it be driving him crazy, numbing his arm?

No, no, Jesus he'd been checked out by a doctor after being recovered. They said he was fine so obviously he was fine. No reason to go off thinking he was dying all of a sudden. Only way he was dying was if he didn't find food sometime soon. The snow made it a little hard to scavenge for much. Not like he would've recognized the right kinds of mushrooms to eat or whatever. He'd never been a boy scout and it wasn't like there were a lot of forests around Brooklyn anyway. Whatever. Just had to keep moving and it'd be okay. Steve would find him. Steve would-

There! Again with the shadow in the woods! Swore he saw it but when he aimed the rifle it was gone and what kind of dumb ass game was this anyway? If it was some Nazi son of a bitch he was being a huge coward and just needed to let him blow his brains out already! God damn assholes.

He flexed his hand again when he slung the rifle back over his shoulder. Then he pressed the thumb of his right hand into the palm of his left and rubbed, like maybe that would help when it hadn't the last fifty times he did it. But fine, at least he was doing something. At least he was moving. That was more than a lot of people better than him could say they had going for them after time at the front.

And then it was like God wanted to reward him for that humble little thought, and there was a place in the woods. Small and beat up but it was there. He didn't get his hopes up. Probably nobody would be there. But then that just meant he could be there and at least he'd have a warm place to sleep. Maybe. Somewhere not wet in the snow and tortured by the wind. He jogged a little, stepped up quietly on the porch so as to not disturb anyone inside but then he thought trying to be quiet was a lot more suspicious than trying to make noise. So maybe he shouldn't care if they knew he was here. He let his boots thud heavily on the wood porch, snow coming off in clumps, and he knocked. "Hey anybody there?" he called. He tried out some of that German they taught them, trying to tell the inhabitant that he was not here to do harm but shit maybe he'd done enough already just trying to get the damn sentence out of his mouth.

There was no response of any kind, no scuffling of feet behind the door, no whispering, nothing. He knocked one more time and called out again before announcing he was coming in. The door was unlocked anyway so he was really happy he thought to try it before kicking at it. Weird though. Who kept their door unlocked like that? Well, somebody who lived in the middle of the woods. Who'd they have to worry about barging in and taking their shit? Besides him, he guessed, but this couldn't be a very well traveled area if he hadn't seen a soul all this time.

His mouth fell open when he stepped inside. This was _fucked_. What were the chances some cottage in the middle of nowhere in Europe had the same exact layout as his place in Brooklyn? Same furniture, even. No, this _was_ his apartment. He stepped back out of the place and he wasn't in the hall, he was on the wood porch where a little snow from his boots melted. How was this happening right now? He rushed back in and opened the first drawer and yeah there was the silverware. There were the plates. The stove with the burner that didn't work. "Jesus," he muttered, looking around the place. Why was this here? _How_ was this here? "Hey!" he called out again even though there wasn't much of a place for anyone to hide.

He looked around a little more. There were their things, him and Steve's. The box of comic books they'd had since they were kids. A handful of books. Some of Steve's artsy stuff. Some records. There was his bed with the shitty uncomfortable mattress and the slightly-very slightly, really, super slightly-nicer one that he let Steve have because he already had so much shit wrong with him why take a good night's sleep away from him too? "Hey, what's this about?" he called one more time. Somebody had to be here. This place wasn't just a coincidence, so who was in on it?

He threw open the bathroom door and nobody was there. So the place was really and truly empty. Which was way worse than finding anybody in it, even if that anybody was some Nazi with a red freak face or a little gnome looking bastard jabbing him with needles. What did he do now? It was getting dark out there, and with that shadow in the woods, he probably shouldn't risk continuing without light. And at least in here, he could lock the door, push something in front of it. Upend the coffee table if he had to. And while it wasn't the warmest place, there were at least blankets.

He looked around one last time, but nothing jumped out at him or told him anything further about how this could be possible or why someone would go to this kind of trouble. But it really didn't bode well for him either. After making the place as secure as possible, he grabbed a blanket and tried to fall asleep to the sound of the wind and the pattering of snowflakes blown against the window panes.

* * *

He woke up to...

Was that... _bacon_?

His eyes felt heavier than ever and he was cold but not as cold as he could be. And he groaned a little when he sat up because who the hell had come in here and made bacon? Probably not an enemy because they would've just popped one in his skull while he slept and been done with it. Least that's what he would've done. Fuck if war doesn't change how you think. He rubbed his eyes and stood up to make his way to the kitchen and there was...

"Morning."

"What?" he nearly shrieked the word like a gal who just saw a mouse. But really, what? How was Steve there, and how had he brought bacon to cook? His eyes darted back out the window to confirm that yes, this was still that place in the middle of the woods and not Brooklyn, so yeah, it was all still perfectly god damn weird.

"What's the matter with you?" Steve asked, making a face.

"Where'd you come from? What's going on?"

Steve looked at him like he was the crazy one. "You feeling okay Buck?"

"No!" he said like it was the most obvious thing on the planet. He rolled his left shoulder and ground his teeth a little at the lack of sensation there. "No! What is all this man?"

"Just bacon. Oh! And there's two pieces of bread left, I forgot, we can have toast to go with it."

Steve snapped his fingers before throwing open the cupboard and digging out the last bit of bread. He just watched and stared and had no idea what to do or say. What would happen if he ate the food? It couldn't be real, right? "Nice jacket."

He looked down at himself absent-mindedly and yeah he was wearing the same blue uniform as the day before. He ran a hand over his chest just to be sure it was really there. "I don't make them I just wear them," he said back, still lost. Why wasn't Steve as freaked out about all of this as he was?

"That's probably for the best," Steve said with a smirk and it was obviously a playful rib but he really wasn't in the mood right now. Too confused and too-

There was a noise. Something heavy on the porch. Steve's eyes shot to the door and he didn't look happy about it. Something moved, two feet blocking the line of light under the door into segments.

"What is that?" he asked Steve in a whisper.

"Don't worry about it."

"Sounds big enough to be like a bear or something."

"Well, good thing we're in here and it's out there, right?" Steve said, taking him by the arm and pulling him towards the food. There was a thud against the door and he jumped, turning back to look at it. "Hey," Steve said, tugging on his sleeve. "Pay attention already." He pointed to the food on the counter. Two plates with bacon and toast.

"You aren't the least bit concerned about-"

"It's nothing. Just stay focused on this." Steve held out a plate to him and man it smelled good. When was the last time he had bacon? As if reading his thoughts, Steve asked just that.

"Um...oh I dunno. Who remembers something like that?" he asked with a grin before taking a bite. Steve looked solemn and he couldn't figure out why. His chewing slowed and he made sure to swallow before asking, "You okay?"

Steve looked back at him. "As long as you are."

"Pfft. I'm always okay." That got Steve to smile so he went with it.

* * *

Part of him wondered if they should've moved on but Steve thought it was best to stay put until help came. He didn't know how help was supposed to come but then maybe Captain America had friends in high places or something so he agreed to wait. And maybe it was better than wandering in the woods freezing his balls off. It wasn't much better inside but at least the wind was cut out. He tried again to sleep that night to the sound of what may as well have been a blizzard and the place creaked in the wind. He didn't know what time it was, only that he'd maybe fallen asleep twice for short periods. He groaned a little as he rolled onto his side, curling up into the tightest ball ever. Even in the worst winter in Brooklyn he hadn't been this cold. But then winters didn't get like this back home. "You okay, Buck?"

"Cold," he answered back.

"Just try not to think about it."

"Easier said than done."

"I know you can do it. It'll be okay."

"Mm." He was too tired to talk, too cold to sleep, and all around kind of miserable. But at least Steve was there, so he didn't have to be alone.

* * *

The scrabbling and banging on the door woke him in the morning. It was light out, but not by much as the clouds kept blocking out the sun. Steve grabbed him by the wrist and ran, practically dragging him to the bathroom as he asked questions in harsh whispers, "What're you doing? Stop it! What's out there?"

"Sh!" Steve nearly snapped, yanking him down to the floor. They sat there in the tiny bathroom, backs pressed to the door. There was a thud at the front door and Steve winced.

"What is it?" he asked, practically silent.

Steve shook his head, the answer plain in his face. Neither of them knew, but it couldn't be good. The door thudded again out front and both of them tensed when it swung open, hard. There were footsteps, not even trying to be silent or sneaking. Whoever it was, they didn't care if their presence was known. Something crashed to the floor noisily. Some glass broke. Some other stuff shredded, snapped, thudded. He watched Steve, eyes wide with terror and Steve seemed more sad and concerned than afraid. "What do we do?" he asked, again basically forcing Steve to read his lips.

Steve gave him a funny look, an almost sad one and he said, " _We_ can't do anything."

He had no idea what the hell that was supposed to mean but he wasn't given a lot of time to dwell on it. The door handle shook and he snatched it with both hands, even if his left hand barely registered the cold of the knob. He squeezed tight, Steve grabbed on with him and they both held on. He let out a shocked little cry when the door popped open ever so briefly before they both slammed it shut again. The two of them put all of their weight into the door, bracing their feet where they could. He gritted his teeth when whoever was on the other side pushed again, nearly throwing them both back. "Fuck off!" he shouted as the door rattled and jerked again.

And then it stopped.

He and Steve stared at each other for a minute, breathless and trembling from the adrenaline. Neither of them said anything and it was like neither of them wanted to believe what had just happened. He listened intently for even the tiniest noise, the smallest huff of breath, the sound of a shoe against the floor, just anything to tell him they were true and well alone or not. When he heard nothing, he peeked through the keyhole. The place was a mess, but he couldn't see anyone out there. Where had they gone? Why did they stop their assault? Maybe they were just here to steal shit. Like there was much worth stealing. "I think they're gone," he said in a whisper.

"Be careful," Steve whispered back.

He pulled open the door and looked around before exiting. There were pieces of plates and cups all on the floor. Shredded paper. Torn up books and comics. Broken records. Food was even thrown all over, eggs running down the walls, milk dripping steadily out of the fridge. His brows drew together as he studied the scene. Only thing left untouched was his rifle, still propped up in his corner of the room by the foot of his bed. Nobody else was in the place anymore and the front door was left open a crack. He snatched up his gun and jogged to the door, throwing it open and searching for whoever had just been here. There weren't even tracks in the snow.

* * *

His arm was basically useless now. It wouldn't even move when he asked. That was really shitty. But he trudged on because at least Steve had found him, somehow. So things would be okay. He glanced over his shoulder at his friend, who had to walk behind him because of the snow that was up to their knees. It was just easier this way, if he cleared a path and Steve followed behind. It'd save him from wasting energy and Steve tired so easily.

The apartment/cottage had been a nice reprieve and it brought Steve back. But they both knew they couldn't stay. Not with what happened. The food was all ruined, what little of it there was, and the thing could come back for them in the night. They couldn't stay out here forever, either, so they had to look for a town or something. He didn't feel too great about the fact that they were climbing up further, since it was less likely to be populated. And the terrain was only getting harder to traverse.

"You okay Steve?"

"Yeah-" The statement sounded weird and unfinished somehow.

"Okay." His breath came out in clouds when he spoke. He was sweating even though it was cold as hell outside. Even though he couldn't remember the last time he saw the sun.   
  
"Hey-" Steve said and again it sounded like something was missing. Like Steve should have said just a bit more. He looked at him anyway because he'd been called, and Steve held some little soft brown square out to him. "Here."  
  
He took it, and he couldn't help how confused he looked. It was spongy and cold and he glanced at Steve, who bit into a square of his own. "What is it?" he asked finally before pressing it to his mouth.  
  
Steve chewed slowly. His eyes went all soft. He didn't look over as he said, "It's bread."  
  
He bit into it to avoid a response. Because he should've known that. He should know what bread is. He didn't want to talk about it so he asked instead, "You don't know where the nearest town or something is, do you?"

"You just keep pushing forward," Steve said. "No matter how hard it gets."

He let out another breath, muscles burning under his skin from the exertion of the hike. Between going uphill and up rocks and having to tear through the snow to do it, his legs were killing him. But he nodded anyway. "Whatever you say." After all, what else could they do but keep moving?

* * *

The blond guy seemed nice enough. Little small to be out here alone but still. Nice. That was good, right? Nice is good. He looked so cold so he offered him his blue coat. Looked like maybe it was part of a uniform but he was sure it was okay if he took part of it off. The blond kid asked, "Won't you be cold?' And he shrugged because he was always cold so what did it matter? It was just good if the blond boy was taken care of. That mattered the most, more than always being cold. More than being a little hungry. More than being tired as shit from working so much. More than the chatter in the brain that already knew what you really were now even if the rest of you didn't understand it yet. Just more.

The blond boy took the coat and it made him happy. He could go a hundred more miles even with his arm that hung like a dead weight at his side. Even with the thing stalking them.

It was following them the way vultures hop around a future meal that hadn't quit moving yet. He couldn't see it well. Even with the scope of the rifle-which was damn difficult to hold and impossible to fire with one functioning arm-he could barely make out any details of it. Something kind of tall, taller than him but not by much. Heavier but in a solid, hard way. It never got tired. Just always following them over rocks and streams and through trees and frozen over bodies of water that cracked so frighteningly when they crossed but never broke. It hadn't killed them. Maybe it just wanted to watch them die.

A jolt ran through him and he knew he couldn't let that happen to the blond boy. The blond boy had to be safe in the end. It didn't matter as much if he got hurt as long as the blond boy was okay. Somebody so good and kind, the world needed that more than they needed somebody like him. Or maybe not. How could he tell? Wasn't there a war going on? Who fought in those wars? People like him. People who could kill people as long as they were told it was 'the bad guy'. Who decided who was bad or not? He probably shouldn't. He didn't want to. It wasn't his place.

"I see him out there you know," he said suddenly needing to say something, anything.

"See who?"

"The thing. The one following us. Seen him. Not too bright, out in the open like that. One shot. Head pops like a watermelon thrown out a window."

"You shouldn't think about things like that."

"I'm not scared to kill somebody."

"I know." The blond boy takes his hand and maybe he's getting scared of being stalked. "What's your name?"

Name? Who needed names? It was just him out here, and the blond boy, and the thing. Not exactly complicated stuff. "I uh-" he started and then he blinked. Who needs a name? "It-" He shook his head. "Doesn't matter. I could kill him, you know. The thing."

"What's my name?"

He jerked his arm away from the boy's. "Names, names, what is it with you and names? No one gives a shit about our god damn names out here kid!"

"You have to care. You have to keep caring."

"Yeah, and why's that?"

"Because if you don't, no one else will."

He set his lips in a line and just stared at the snow. The thought kept coming back that he could just kill the thing out there. Just blow its head off and be done with it.   
  
So why didn't he?

* * *

Hadn't there been someone else? There- _here_. He'd been here. With him. Some-a small boy? Just him and that boy out here. And now-

Nothing.

Nothing but wind and cold and snow as it rained down and down and down. The mud of the swamp sucked at his boots every time he took a step. Sometimes he sank in up to his knees, other times he managed to find higher ground. He had to keep doing that. Had to climb higher and higher to follow the way forward and it was almost like a warning right? To not go this way? So why was he going this way? What was backwards again? Maybe it was better that way.   
  
So he turned around. Because it might be-the boy might be back there, maybe. Or something. Something good.

In the distance, a shadow waited for him. It did so calmly, like it knew this time was coming and it'd been so patient and its reward was here. But he couldn't let it stop him, that thing. He had his rifle still. Fingers curled tight around the strap. Even with one hand, he could do it. At point blank like that, crack, splat, open up his ribs and watch his heart stop beating from the outside. Because that's what he did. Violent things. Too violent. He'd always fought. This was just the natural conclusion a life like his should reach.

He should've turned around a long time ago. It was easier this way. Nothing to fight against, no mountains of snow and thick mud and even the wind didn't blow so hard in his face. The thing stalked towards him, as if to meet him halfway. So he raised his rifle, couldn't brace it against his shoulder. But he squeezed the trigger anyway and then he was on his ass in the mud, the sound of the gunshot echoing forever in the woods. He missed but that was okay. The thing was coming closer, inviting him to try again. He pushed himself up, never letting go of the gun. He could do this. This is what he was here for, why he existed, this gun in his hand, it was his whole purpose. It made him important, made him matter.

The thing was a man and what else would it be? A man with dark long hair that hadn't been taken care of. Hollow blue eyes, not like a predator, or a crazy person, or even just somebody who was really bored. No, just hollow, nothing, not a care or concern. Not a feeling about any of this. He fired again, crack, hit the snow. The thing stalked forward, only becoming a bigger target. Snow fell bright against its black fatigues and uniform. Silver glinted in its hand-its fingers, its left hand, whole arm, it was made of metal. There was a black mask on its face, maybe to keep its nose and mouth and cheeks warm and maybe for some other reason altogether. It didn't look like the kind of thing that cared about if it was warm or not so he wasn't sure.

He pushed himself backwards, suddenly slipping deeper into the freezing swamp. He sputtered, filthy water choking him. But he sat back up, coughed, held the rifle again, and crack, it splintered away part of a tree just beside the thing's right shoulder. So he was getting better. Going to make the next shot, he could feel it in his bones. He emptied the chamber and snapped the bolt to load the next round. The old casing popped out. The thing pulled a knife. It stopped just in front of the barrel of the rifle. He squeezed the trigger but it snatched the barrel in its left hand and twisted it.

The gun was no longer a viable option for self defense. He rolled onto his side in order to push himself up with his right arm. Because his left arm wasn't there anymore. Completely gone. Maybe it always had been. He couldn't remember. He heard the thing's heavy footsteps squelch in the mud behind him. Something sharp hit him in the back, just behind his heart. His breath caught in his throat because that was too close, too close to dying. One knee hit the wet ground. Something had him by the hair. The thing, obviously. It wrenched him around to face it and it pulled the knife out of his back. He groaned, swung his free arm at its rib cage. He made contact, good contact, a nice, solid punch. But the thing was just too strong. It didn't care. It just held him by the hair and stared into his face, as if willing him, _pleading_ him to give up. But he wouldn't, he couldn't do that.

So he swung again, and kicked at its legs and thrashed, anything to get free while it held him by the hair. And that knife, it just sat there in its silver metal hand, his blood dripping from its tip. He swung and screamed at it, fist connecting with its jaw and it didn't even flinch. He pulled its hair. Scratched at its eyes. Tore off the mask. He thought he should know the face underneath but it didn't matter, only survival mattered.

A hand on the back of his neck yanked him forward. Blood welled up through his throat as the thing sank the knife in his chest. He coughed and his mouth worked but no sound came out otherwise. It pulled him closer, fingers in his hair, and for a moment he was warm with his cheek on its chest like that and maybe. Maybe it wasn't the worst way to die. His eyes drifted and somewhere past its shoulder he saw someone moving. Someone small who watched and stretched a hand out for him but he just didn't have the strength to reach back. It twisted the knife and he cried out but its fingers held tight to the back of his head as if to keep him there. As if he could struggle. As if he could get free.

It held him like that while he bled out, the world around him getting fuzzier. The snow never stopped falling. Someone whispered to him, some bits and pieces of words but never a full sentence. It let him go and he fell without resistance into the mud. That ghost was still there, hovering and blurring at the edges of his vision. Something cold and wet dropped onto his legs. His back. And somewhere along the way he realized it was snow. It would bury him out here and no one would think to look for him. His breath stopped turning into puffs of vapor because his insides weren't that much warmer than the outsides anymore and he tried to clutch the bleeding wound in his chest but felt too weak to move. The small figure took his hand instead and vaguely he thought he heard someone tell him some kind thing, some reassurance of their place at his side but it didn't matter. He let the figure hold his hand until there was nothing left of him but a swell in the snow.


End file.
